A Matter of Will
by Laerthel
Summary: First Age, Himring. In the middle of the night, little Elrond is coming to the dreadful realisation that something evil is lurking under his bed. Meanwhile, Maedhros has to send soldiers to deal with the Orc horde ravaging Himlad's fields, only to find a far more terrible and dangerous beast within his walls... or within himself? (Silmarillion-based.)
1. Chapter 1: The Orc

Part of my Half-Elven series; even darker and more hazy as usual. Strongly inspired by Edgar Allan Poe. Not Tolkien-like (I'm starting to think that I couldn't write anything Tolkien-like to save my life...), but totally based on The Silmarillion.  
><em>The first chapter contains, like, the quarter of the story I actually planned to write, but I decided to remove the Third Age part and focus on Elrond's childhood (he's around the age of 8 here).<em>

Enjoy, even if it's not a particularly easy read. :)

**Quenya names and the translations of Elvish phrases can be found at the end.**

**CORRECTED VERSION, thanks to kim-onka!**

* * *

><p><strong>The Orc<strong>

A wave of shiver shook little Elrond's bones as he tightened around himself the blanket he stole, wishing for a hot bath and his mother's kiss. But that old, moth-eaten piece of wool was everything he had.

The castle was so cold he could almost feel the blood freezing in his veins. Makalaurë had set some logs afire in the hearth of the small room he shared with his twin, but Elros was not there; they could not sleep together that night. They were punished for having tried to escape through the backdoor, eventually caught by Russandol, who – as usual – was not in the brightest of his moods.

_They had never heard Russandol yell this loudly. They had never hated Russandol this badly._

And then Elrond was left alone in the dark, afraid and cold, with an Orc under his bed.

The Orc had a certain cunning, it could hide well, but Elrond, with all the confidence and precaution of a child, was convinced of its presence. Obviously, at the beginning he tried not to reveal that he knew about his unpleasant visitor but the Orc was there all the same, making those terrible creaking noises in the middle of the night and Elrond was deadly afraid of it. Apparently, the Orc was as hungry as he, and it wanted to eat him.

And the castle walls were cold, and Elros was nowhere.

.x.

He made his way along the eerie aisle, where silvery moonlight glimmered on some faded tapestries which covered the walls. Dawn was still far, the moon a fat crescent, inclining to halfness. Elrond had to act quickly, for the Orc seemed to grow hungrier than ever.

Elros had to be with Makalaurë, on the top of that scary tower Elrond hated the most. To reach his brother, first he had to climb those large, ice-cold marble stairs, turn left, then left again to avoid the guards, jump through that breach in the wall where no one could follow him, not even the Orc, then climb more stairs, and more and more and more... and then slip inside the room, silent as a shade, trying not to wake Makalaurë.

Elrond thought it could be done.

.x.

He'd already climbed half the stairs and reached their flight when a door sprang open and orange torchlight filled the corridor. Elrond skulked to the wall with his back and closed his eyes, waiting for the doom to strike him... but slowly, the light moved further and he heard long smooth steps, then a determined voice.

"How many of them?"

_Russandol. It was Russandol._

"A hundred or more, my lord. They will reach the river before dawn."

"Send word to the mountains. There could be more coming."

"Our scouts are aware of them, my lord. They beg permission to hunt them down."

"They are...?"

"Four-and-forty, my lord."

"Send a dozen riders after them. It has to be enough."

"As you wish."

"And close the gates immediately when you leave!"

"We always do, my lord - "

"_Immediately_ is not a minute later, and not three seconds later. Immediately is a heartbeat later at most. Understood?"

"Understood, my lord," came the guard's voice from the room, almost as terrified as poor little Elrond quivering in a dark corner. He wanted to cry but he didn't dare.

_Why is Russandol so evil? Why does he hate everyone? What wrong have we ever done to him?_

_And what is lurking out there? A hundred of what...?_

_Whatever it is, it can't be worse than Russandol._

Elrond gave a start, weighing the opportunity of silently walking back to his room and letting the Orc eat him rather than to risk being discovered, but he had no chance.

The guard left the room in haste and ran down the stairs without even noticing him, and Russandol even closed the door... but the latch never clicked. There remained a thin orange line of light between the frame and the door, and just when Elrond thought he could safely leave the dark corner and sneak past the door, he was horrified to see Russandol's eye peeking through the gap. The door sprang open, light filled the aisle again and Elrond was standing there, shaking from head to toes before Russandol's giant figure. The tall Elf seemed scarier than ever in the dim light of the torches.

"Look who's there! Plotting another escape, aren't you? Without the other little fool, this time! Are you so desperate?"

Russandol wasn't yelling now. His voice was soft but deadly cool, honeyed with mockery which just made him sound even more evil.

"I wasn't planning an escape," Elrond said, his voice trembling. "I was just searching for Elros."

There was no use of lying. Russandol would have known.

"How moving! Still... are you trying to tell me that you're not old enough to survive a night without your precious brother? You are lying, little one! You want to flee. You want to go home, but you have no home now. You would even kill me if you dared. If you could."

"_No, I would not!"_ Elrond screamed it to Russandol's face, tears in his eyes. _"I'm not as bad as you! I just want to kill the Orc!"_

That was the first time ever he saw Russandol looking confused, even disturbed.

"What Orc?"

"There is an Orc under my bed," Elrond was sobbing now. "It wants to eat me!"

Russandol rolled his eyes.

"Enough of this stupid whimpering! No Orc can enter our castle. Your brother is alive - we haven't eaten him yet if that brings you relief. And if you close your little mouth and don't try to escape again we won't eat you, either."

That was almost reassuring, but somehow Elrond's tears were disinclined to stop falling. He could not even remember why he was crying, what was hurting him so badly but it still hurt and his tears were still washing down his face. And Russandol was just standing there with that uncertain expression on his face that Elrond could not see properly through his tears, probably that's why it reminded him to unsettlement, even fear.

"Don't cry -," Russandol finally managed but it did no good, because Elrond was afraid of opposing him and yet he couldn't stop sobbing.

"_For the stars of Varda, just stop this childish folly!"_ Russandol yelled at him some moments later but – of course – it did no good, either.

And then Russandol knelt in front of him (but he was still much taller).

"So there's an Orc under your bed," he stated solemnly, looking deep in little Elrond's eyes.

This was so unexpected that his eyes widened and the tears stopped.

_Russandol believed him!_

"What does the Orc do?"

"It makes... sounds," Elrond said, still in a shaky voice.

"What sounds? Does it talk to you?"

"No, it just... creaks."

"Creaks. I see."

Russandol rose to his feet, then slid into the room and came back with a longsword, about the size of Elrond.

"I shall go and kill that Orc," he said coolly. "But then stop snivelling and let me get some sleep."

The blade left its scabbard and Elrond gave a start when he heard the sound of steel.

.x.

Russandol approached the room with smooth, silent steps, but they were so long Elrond had to run as he followed them – which made noise. Too much noise. The Orc knew without doubt that they were coming... but Elrond was no longer afraid.

_Russandol will surely kill that beast, _he thought. _Russandol could kill anyone if he wanted, if he really wanted._

And then they arrived.

The door was half open as little Elrond left it, the logs had turned to ash in the hearth and all the warmth was gone from the room. Elrond's bed was empty, the blankets thrown at its end as he'd left them. His clothes hung untouched on a chair, the moth-eaten curtain was also at its place. Nothing moved.

"I emphatically counsel for any Orc who dwells in this room to show up immediately, so they may gain a swift and painless death," Russandol declared in a ringing tone. Elrond could hear scornful amusement in his voice.

The room remained silent. No one answered.

"You are hearing my second and last warning," Russandol said. "The next one will be a blow through your throat, dear Orc."

Dead silence.

"It is in here," Elrond heard himself saying. "It's just hiding. It is afraid of you! I'm not lying, please, believe me!"

He was sobbing again. What if they'll just stand and watch and the Orc fails to show itself? Russandol would think he'd lied, and all his wrath would turn against him. That was more than he could bear.

Russandol looked at him, wondering. Then he walked to the bed and kicked it with all his strength.

A handful of mortar fell from the walls, covering Elrond's pillow with a dusty white blanket – and there came the creaking sound, louder and more terrible than ever! Elrond wanted to flee but something made him stop and look back, trembling and terrified as he was.

Russandol tossed the bed aside with a quick flick of his arm – even with one hand, he was so _horribly_ strong! - and the Orc ran to the middle of the room, probably as horrified as Elrond himself.

Only, it wasn't an Orc, just a huge, black rat. Robbed of its shelter, the creature sticked to the floor, trembling all over – same as Elrond who was now looking to its small, coal-black eyes.

Russandol glanced at the longsword but suddenly changed his mind; he wrenched the balcony door open and kicked towards the rat which let out a squeak and ran out to the wilderness.

.x.

Elrond stood there for a long time, his heart filled with shame instead of relief. Russandol sat on his bed, his eyes never leaving the child's face.

_Why was Russandol looking at him with that strange light in his eyes? Was he angry now? Was he planning to hurt him? Was he about to yell at him again and chase him back to bed?_

Another shining tear washed down his cheek.

"What a whimpering little fool you are!" Russandol groaned. "What on Arda is the matter now? We finished that terrible Orc. It's gone. No one is going to eat you and your brother is safe. I have no more time to hear you squirking like a mouse! What the hell are you afraid of, truly?!"

_There is some strange courage in saying out loud what we are afraid of._

"You," Elrond eyed Russandol through his tears. "You are always so angry with me! And Elros! You hate us, and now you will hate me even more because the Orc was not real!"

"No one is going to hate you," Russandol said after a long, sullen silence. "Do you hear me, child? Stop crying. Raise your head and get yourself some dignity."

"What is a dignity?" Elrond had to ask. "Is it a weapon?"

Russandol laughed silently.

(How can someone laugh without even a sparkle of happiness in their voice?)

"A weapon, aye. A shining sword. Have it sharpened so you can shove it amongst my ribs one day."

Elrond didn't understand that.

Russandol helped the little boy to bed and tightened the blanket around his legs. He did it a lot clumsier than Mother, probably because he had only one hand. Still, he seemed a little less evil now. He set the logs on fire in the hearth, and warmth started to creep towards Elrond's feet. Russandol glanced at the small flames, then shook his head and unlaced his furcloak (it was made of a giant bear he slew, Elrond had heard the guards saying).

To the boy, it seemed like a sea of fur which embraced him warmly as Russandol bespread it on the top of his blankets. He even removed a strand of black hair from his eyes and placed it behind his ear.

Little Elrond didn't understand that, either. Was Russandol planning to behead him now?

But somehow, he didn't. He must have changed his mind.

_But why did he act so different now than usual? Why did he sit on his bedside for a moment before he left, watching the dance of the flames in the hearth, and why didn't he lock the door?_

_And why did he leave his warm cloak on him?_

.x.

.x.

"Elros, look! I can fly!"

Little Elrond was standing on top of the bastion-wall arms outspread, his tunic flapping in the cool wind as Makalaurë had strictly forbade them. Elros tightened his arms around his twin's chest, trying to pull him back, but they were both fascinated by the wide, unknown lands they could see opening out to the green-gray horizon. The wind was playing with their hair.

"That is wonderful, seldo1, but it is just as easy to fly downwards and break your neck," came Makalaurë's calm voice from the background as he lifted up the two of them before they could resist, stashing them carefully behind the epaulement.

"But I want to see them coming! Please!" Elrond begged.

"To see who coming?"

"The scouts! They fought a hundred of something and I'm sure they will soon arrive!"

"A hundred of something?" Elros raised his brows.

"Orcs, that would be," Makalaurë said in that calm, elegant tone of his. "Those filthy beasts ravage everything these days, but our lances and bows are stronger. We can defeat them."

As if to justify his words, a sound of a horn came echoing from Himlad's fields and fifty-some riders emerged from the endless sea of grass. The scouts were coming.

.x.

Little Elrond didn't understand what happened next.

The gates were opened, the guards shouted down from the walls to greet their friends, the flags of the house of Fëanor were flapping proudly in the wind, as ever. The bright red forelock of Russandol appeared in front of the newcomers and the leader of the scouts was commanded to present his reports. But then four riders carried _something_ through the gate. Whatever it was, it required carrying, though it seemed to be alive, even conscious. The twins couldn't see the creature's face and the guards disappeared with it quickly behind the castle walls.

And then Russandol came up to seek his brother, in the deadliest of his fury.

"Come, Otorno2," he breathed, unable even to say Makalaurë's name. "Come with me."

Makalaurë froze. "Is it..."

"No," Russandol said in a shaky voice. "Not anymore."

His madly angered glance suddenly turned towards the twins.

"You stay here," he said in a low, menacing voice that made the blood freeze in their veins. "Understood?"

"Understood," Elrond and Elros whispered.

No one locked the door; because who could withstand Russandol's fury?

.x.

After minutes, or maybe even hours of sullen silence, Elros walked to the door and peeked out to the empty stairs.

"We have to stay here," Elrond reminded him, but he sounded uncertain. He would have followed Elros if he'd gone forth...

Hunger and cold had its effects. They left the room and sneaked slowly past the stairs. Nothing moved, even the guards were away.

"What was that thing the guards carried past the gate?" Elros suddenly asked. "Did you see it? It had red eyes."

"I did not see it," Elrond swallowed, "but it was definitely a Something."

"A what?"

"A Something, Elros!" Elrond whispered to his twin's ear. "I heard Russandol at night, when he was talking to a guard. He sent his riders out to war but he never mentioned who the enemy was. It must have been a whole army of these Somethings! Maybe they captured their leader, who is here now. Maybe Russandol wants to question him, so that's why the scouts left him alive."

"These Somethings must be terrible, than," Elros whispered back. "Even Russandol was afraid of that creature, did you see?"

"No, he wasn't!" Elrond snapped. "Russandol is too brave to be afraid!"

"Why would you say such of him?" his brother frowned. "Russandol is evil!"

"Yes, he is. But he is also brave!"

They were at this point of their argument when they heard the footsteps. Swiftly, they hid in a cobwebbed corner but the steps came from the other side of the wall. It must have been a guard who strode back and forth along the corridor.

Looking around, Elrond realised that they were lost. Neither of them had ever seen this part of the castle – it was dim, torch-lit and even eerier than the others. They've almost decided to turn back and try to found their way to the tower where they were left, but Elros suddenly caught his twin's arm.

"Elrond, look!"

They were standing in front of a thick iron door which was half-open... and through the gap, they could see the Something, in all its horror.

The creature was tall as an Elf, pale as a corpse and ragged as an Orc. Its face had once been beautiful but its skin was a greyish brown now, slowly turning to black; one of its eyes shone pale red, the other was missing, its lips were thin and withered, its teeth sharp and most of its hair had fallen out. It was bounded to a chair with Makalaurë and Russandol towering above him. Russandol was clutching his longsword, Makalaurë his harp; and they were arguing.

"You cannot kill him, Maitimo!" Makalaurë whispered in despair. "Spare his life, he is our friend! He is Antalossë3!"

"He was," Russandol said coolly. "He isn't now. Would you call _Antalossë_ all the corpses we'll still have to bury through our endless years? Our friend is worse than dead. A thrall of the Enemy. A walking corpse. Let him die, and find peace in the Halls of Mandos!"

"He might still recover!"

Russandol fleered, his rusty voice dancing on the edge of madness.

"Recover, you say. _Recover!_ Look at him, Brother - he's already half an Orc. He can't talk, he doesn't understand our speech. Let him die!"

"Maybe he is just shocked! Maitimo, please -"

Makalaurë was squelched by a low, terrifying roar that seemed to gush out from the Something's throat. Elros reached for his twin's shoulder to jerk him back from the gap, but it was too late – the Something saw Elrond. Apparently, it was hungrier then the two of them together; it froze for a moment but then it began to stretch the rope around its torso, so violently it began to crush.

Elrond's heart was beating like a drum; clanging together with Elros, he could feel that his twin was just as frightened. He caught his breath and gave a start as if trying to run away, but at this very moment the rope gave way and the Something jumped forward, rattling like some savage beast.

Elrond's horrified scream was swiftly muffled by a headlong shove of Russandol's right arm that sent him flying to the wall. The tall Elf grabbed the Something by its neck, shook the creature violently, crashed it to the wall and began to throttle him – for with one hand, he couldn't reach his sword.

"Maitimo!" Makalaurë cried but the redhead paid no mind. His grip only loosened on the Something's neck when the feverish light flickered out in its eyes and its jaw dropped.

"Russandol!" Elrond heard himself shouting. Tears were washing down his face. Elros was sobbing silently.

"It's over," Russandol mumbled in his throaty voice. "Probably for the best. It was to be done."

"Still, I feel more like a kinslayer than ever," he added a moment later, studying the haggard face of the creature that once was called Antalossë. "Morgoth's decay starts deep within; and whether his havoc looks uglier on the inside or the outside, no one could tell."

"_Maitimo!"_ Makalaurë called out again, on the edge of tears.

The taller Elf lifted up his gaze as if caught out.

"Makalaurë," he said coolly. "Have this dirt cleaned up, if you would."

And thus he turned to face the twins.

"_You!"_ Russandol's mere gaze could have congealed river Celon that ribboned over his wide lands. "_I commanded you to stay in the tower! And I did it for a reason, dimwits!"_

"We were afraid," Elros began to weep.

"_I commanded it!"_

"Maitimo, stop yelling!" Makalaurë raised his arms and stood between his brother and the shivering children. "They're frightened to death!"

"They're lucky to be frightened! Lucky even to be alive!" Russandol snapped.

"Look at me, little ones!" Makalaurë knelt in front of the twins. "Russandol and I want to protect you. Do as you are told, and no harm will ever come to you in this castle. And now let's go and eat something. Don't let the shadows of evil trouble you."

And he reached for their hands.

.x.

.x.

Russandol was not present at the dinner, nor did Elrond see him in the next three days. But the morning after he woke to the sound of warhorns; and when he and his twin stumbled down the stairs to learn what happened, they walked past Makalaurë. He looked care-laden but smiled wanly at the sight of the children, and told them Russandol had rode out to chase the Orcs in the mountains. Elrond felt relieved – the thought of being captured in Himring seemed less scary without the rigour of Russandol. And still, his absence left him curious and his mind filled with questions while they occupied their chairs around the breakfast table.

"Makalaurë," he suddenly blurted out. "What was that... that _something_ Russandol killed?"

Makalaurë froze for a second, his hand stopping right above a slice of bread. He glanced up to meet Elrond's eyes, and when he saw that the twins were watching him with equal interest, he sighed.

"That – that was a thrall of Morgoth," he said slowly. "That's what the enemy does to the unlucky ones whom he captures alive. The creature that almost killed you was an Elf once; tall and dark-haired as I. Even our eyes were similar, now that I recall. His name had been Antalossë; and Maitimo... Russandol loved him dearly. He valued him over other soldiers, for his wits were very quick. Antalossë was one of his most faithful servants, but I think he never really liked to be here - we're settled too far north and he ever missed hunting in the woods. So Russandol sent him to our cousin Findekáno as a sergeant. But after... after a long time, he came back and served us faithfully until his capturing. By the time our scouts carried him back, it was too late, as you saw. Russandol was right, we could not have saved him."

Elrond froze. There was a long, sullen silence.

"You mean that thing... that was an Elf?" Elros asked in a shaky voice.

"No. Not anymore."

"So that means...," Elrond whispered in horror, following the thread of his twin, "It means that every Orc..."

"No! Not every one of them."

"But some..."

"Some, yes."

Makalaurë sighed in despair when he looked at the horrified faces of the twins, pale as ashes.

"I should not have told you..."

They should not have asked, maybe, but Elrond was restless. Trembling and terrified as he was, he couldn't think of anything else. He scarcely ate a bite, musing on Russandol who killed his friend without hesitation when he became an Orc.

_Would he kill Makalaurë, too?_

_And how does one become an Orc? During torment? Without sunshine and bread and water? By an evil spell, before the burning eyes of the Enemy?_

_Or is Russandol so wild and evil because he's half an Orc himself? And if he is, why did he save his life?_

* * *

><p><strong>Quenya names:<strong>

Makalaurë = Maglor

Maitimo = Russandol = Maedhros

Findekáno = Fingon

**Phrases:**

1: _seldo_ means "boy"

2: _Otorno_ is not the usual quenya equivalent of "brother" (originally, it would be "toron"). "Otorno" adds to the meaning "sworn brother" or "associate" which sounds kind of informative when it comes to the sons of Fëanor...

3: _Antalossë_ is a name with a word-combination I formed myself; its meaning would be "Snow-face", appealing to his rather lurid skin (while the poor thing was still an Elf, at least). He is an own character, though not developed.

**Base from The Silmarillion:**

_"But of those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet it is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest of foes."_


	2. Chapter 2: The Thrall

...so here is the second one – I planned it to be the most horrid part of this story but it turned out otherwise, I guess. (Still, it's not specifically cheerful, I must warn you.)

_Historical events and names overload – I tried to explain everything at the end._

**For the ones who read my story 'A Tale From Rivendell':** you may be surprised to see an own - and beloved - character, _Tyelcano_ appearing here. And, BOOM, backstory! Consider yourselves favoured, he prefers to keep his past in secret.

**For the ones who don't:** let Maitimo introduce him. There's another surprise guest here (though just for a short while), someone you may know...

_I guess I'll finish this story, after all._

_CORRECTED VERSION, thanks to kim-onka!_

* * *

><p><strong>The Thrall<strong>

"My lord," the captain of his scouts rose to greet him with a courteous bow and Russandol frowned at the gesture. There was no need to bow in front of him, he was taller anyway...

"My lord," the captain repeated slowly, sadly, but seemingly uneasy. Russandol supposed he was trying to gain time with his politeness which made him furious. "I'm afraid the news I bring won't be to your liking. I must confess..."

"Overstep your personal standpoint, if you would, and focus on the statement of facts," Russandol interrupted coolly.

_Orcs under the bed, crying children, helplessly mumbling soldiers and wakefulness. Valar, why punish me again?_

"As you wish, my lord. I-"

"I wish nothing. I command."

Russandol's voice grew even colder and the captain flinched but finally, he managed to gather his confidence.

"We brought your friend back," he stated solemnly.

"Antalossë?" Russandol's voice was unconcerned.

"As you say, my lord. You won't like what the Enemy did to him."

"None of us can change what is already done," Russandol said, his tone indifferent, though his legs suddenly felt numb and he had to make an effort to move. "Let us hope he may recover."

The captain nodded briefly, swallowing his _personal standpoint._ Russandol started to wonder if it had been a bad idea to interrupt his speech but at this point, he was ashamed to ask. At least, he might have been ashamed if not for that crippling ice-sheet that seemed to spread in his chest, getting closer and closer to his heart. He could hardly feel anything else now than the paralysing sensation of cold.

_We should heat this damned castle thoroughly, especially with those whining children here, _he thought, even if he knew nothing would melt the ice on his heart. Not now.

"There is another thing, my lord," he heard the captain's voice.

"And what would that be?"

"We chased the scouts of Morgoth for a long time and encountered four watchmen of our borders," the captain said frankly, as he was commanded to talk, though Russandol heard his voice quivering here for a moment. "They were heading to your castle to demand your help. They are running out of provisions and they're becoming helpless, for their chief captain Tyelcano must have been captured or killed... he's been missing for a month now."

Russandol leaned to grab hold of his desk with a hand that was no longer there, and the captain had to catch his shoulder to prevent him from falling. He pushed his lord back to the chair and let him go immediately; Russandol would always get mad if someone, _anyone _tried to help him those rare times when his maimed hand disadvanced him. The captain had heard him many times yelling even at Makalaurë who said nothing, who never said anything, who just watched him with those sad grey eyes of his.

The captain must have expected a fervent slap on his face, a headlong shove or a curse, anything... but Russandol just straightened his back and eyed him sharply, eagerly as if nothing happened. His defiant glance felt hot and tantalizing.

"How comes that no one took the trouble to inform me about this for _one whole month,_ Captain?" Russandol's tone was low now, menacingly low. "If this is what I keep feeding my messengers for, you are free to dismiss them in this very hour."

"They set out to find the Lord Tyelcano, my lord - "

"So they set out – abandoning the watch?"

The captain's situation was getting miserable.

"My lord - " he finally managed. "They were disadvantaged by every possible circumstance. They all felt ashamed and they decided to mend matters before reporting to you, but..."

"Magnificent," Russandol's fist banged on the table. "I am losing the trust of my own soldiers! Why do they seek my help, anyway?"

"They cannot hope to survive winter this way, my lord."

Russandol took a deep breath, regaining his self-control.

"I may speak with them later. Send them everything they need. Food, arms, horses, blanketing – and a dozen riders. I can't dispense with more." His voice was calm, emotionless. "I am done with you for today. Go and get some rest."

The captain bowed and left Russandol alone with his well-kept horror.

.x.

Antalossë as a thrall... the thought hurt him badly, it dug a hole in his chest where his heart had been - but losing Tyelcano was too much. Hearing his name again after so many years brought back all his memories of old times, of better times, and to his shame, he had to admit that it was not Tyelcano he grieved for, but rather himself.

Tyelcano had been tall, taller than Father, and he'd also been strong and wise.

_Wiser than Father,_ Russandol mused. _He should have listened to him, but he never did; yet Tyelcano had admired him all the same._

In spite of his young age, the wise Elf was fit for the rule of the First Counsellor in Tirion – Russandol could remember him vaguely from his childhood, standing youthful and lanky next to Grandfather (still just a page boy, that time) or walking slowly beside Father as they were circling the walls of Formenos. And he could also half-imagine, half-remember Tyelcano kneeling next to his bed after he was rescued (and still half unconscious), as he pledged his sword to him. The counsellor had always believed in him, and Russandol had always felt worthless of his trust.

Tyelcano was there when he first grabbed a quill with his clumsy left hand and tried to write. Tyelcano was the one who agreed when he refused the heritage of his father: crown, titles, puissance and all. Tyelcano was the one who sticked to him no matter what, who helped him out from all the dangers of intrigue that might have costed him his lordship. But after a time, Russandol decided that his brother Curufin was in sore need of Tyelcano's wits so he sent the counsellor to hold him in check.

_It was my most grievous mistake to dismiss him to the borders after... after such a long time,_ Russandol mused.

_After such a long time, _the mocking thought echoed in his mind. _Are you afraid, well shaped-one? You wretched mockery of a Noldo! You withered remnant of your father's glory and pride! You miserable thrall of Morgoth! You are afraid to say it out loud, though it is always on your mind. Night and day. Years ago._

_A long time ago... but what's the point of speaking about mistakes, even grievous ones? What suicidal error, what fatal tragedy could earn the name of MISTAKE in your eyes, after "such a long time" or "years" or however you refer to THE NIRNAETH!_

He gasped, desperate to fight back all those unnumbered tears. He couldn't cry now. He just _couldn't._ Walls had ears in the Himring, and too many of them...

Yes, he made another grievous mistake. He should have held Tyelcano close, but he didn't want to hear the counsellor opposing him when he attacked Doriath with his brothers... now that he recalled, he hasn't heard anything about the Elf ever since. Was he captured so long ago...? The captain might have lied to him about this... _but if he did, Tyelcano must be entirely an Orc by now!_

There, he almost cried. He would have cried like a child, had he been no one else but Russandol. But he was also the Lord of the Himring, the Warden of the East, a Kinslayer and Head of the House of Fëanáro, so he gathered himself and swallowed his _personal standpoint,_ as he called it.

.x.

Russandol knew exactly how to transform an Elf into an Orc. He'd seen the process many times – if he'd entrenched himself in Morgoth's dark arts for a short while, he could have even created new Orcs himself. Countless times he had to watch - watch as the smooth snow-white skin was soiled, watch as the teeth fell out or became sharp and pointed, watch as the eyes bled until they glimmered red and grew to loathe any kind of light, watch as tall, lithe, muscular bodies were grotesquely deformed, tormented and mutilated, watch as red flesh turned to black, watch as wits and souls were maimed, watch as withered, broken, miserable creatures forgot their pride, their dignity, even the very nature of their race and grew to fear death – to fear it madly, impossibly, boundlessly.

Future Orcs fought for death first. No one wanted to be dishonored, stripped and mutilated during endless torment. No one wanted to yield slowly, no one wanted to drop under the burden. They wanted to be killed and they did everything to gain their ends – all in vain.

_"Let them! Let them! Never fight!"_ Russandol had screamed into the night, but no one heard him. He was hanging from a cliff, after all. All he saw was a vision of things that happened down in the smelters of Morgoth, but the vision was clear and true. _It had to be true._

Why did they fight, the foolish ones?! It was not the endless torment that broke them. It was not the loss of blood, the ravage of flesh, not even the fact that they were blemished, disfigured, shamed, maimed. They chased themselves to despair, to absolute madness. They lost their wits. They lost their mind and their will. They surrendered before the evil of Morgoth, for they never truly believed they had a choice – and thus they lost it.

Sometimes, Russandol had wanted to be an Orc. The thought of violence, of endless physical torment could have cleared his mind. He almost longed for it. It would have been a relief if his body ached (more, yes, even more). The wind always howled on that cliff and Russandol was cold. He coughed and he spit blood, so something must have been amiss with his lungs by then.

_Down there in the smelters the air must be warm at least,_ Russandol had thought many times as he closed his eyes in despair. But he could never get down there – that was no part of his torment.

Sometimes, he'd lost himself in colorful delirations, and he'd imagined he was being transformed into an Orc. He never fought in these dreams – he let his tormentors ravage him and never said a word, never cried, never cursed. Never even moved. They stopped various times to check if he was still alive, and Russandol opened his eyes to help them decide. Nothing more.

_Oh how he'd wished to become an Orc! _No matter what would they do with his body, his fëa could fly free. His mind, his soul, his very essence stayed always clear. Sometimes he could even laugh at the ignorance of his visionary tormentors.

_You uglify me, you hurt me, you cut me and you're foolish enough to think that you can also cow me. I am a Son of Fëanáro! I am a Prince of the Noldor, dimwits! Go and hurt me, make my body an Orc – and I shall make you trust me, you will name me your chief captain and I will burn your castle, kill your soldiers and free your thralls! I will avenge my father, my brothers, the ships and Findekáno, even the face I lost. I will get my heritage back. And then? I will laugh into your face, kill my dishonored hröa and find peace in the Halls of Mandos. So go and hurt me, lackwits!_

The only error in Russandol's glorious plans was that the Enemy must have known what he was thinking, and seemingly, he had not the mind to find out if the Prince of the Noldor could withsave himself during such torments. He went on ravaging his fëa instead.

_But Antaloss__ë__,_ Russandol thought, his mind flying back to the present, _my dear friend, are you strong enough? Are you just ugly or have you lost yourself? Did they just dishonor you or did they rob you of your wits?_

The answer was terrible.

.x.

.x.

.x.

While the dinner was served, Russandol stealed on, back to the cell where his throttled friend laid still. He sat beside the corpse and studied it with interest. The smell of decay transpierced the room massively as if Antalossë was at least a fortnight dead. His eyes were red and glassy, and his ravaged face had turned into a disturbing shade of purple.

_He was weak, _Russandol realized. _He surrendered. He should have died sooner instead of being brought back to our horror! He almost killed those little ones._

But why did he care, anyway? The twins were just another burden he had to carry. He could have seen the last of them! Everyone would have thought it was an accident... and he would have never had to stay awake again to pluck imaginary Orcs from under beds! He should have let this wretched creature kill them.

He gasped, as if woken from a dream. _What was I thinking?_

He, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro just wished – and wished with passion, with fervency, he wished it from the hole where his heart had been – he wished he'd let a thrall of Morgoth kill (and, probably, eat) two innocent children. Said innocent children were captured by him, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro who'd rushed their mother into death, just to get back a jewel that was stolen from him – by someone else.

_You dare not to kill them,_ he mocked himself. _You want someone else to do the dirty work, don't you?_

"What am I thinking!" he cried aloud, and suddenly all those unnumbered tears spouted from the depths of his fëa and they were flowing, flowing, flowing like a river. They covered his face in salt and water, only to make him remember the burning ships of Losgar.

The shores had been salty, the sails clad in fire. His father was laughing, and Tyelcano, ever-witty, ever-practical Tyelcano made sure if their package avoided the flames. And he, Nelyafinwë (those times, his father would have killed anyone who'd dared to call him simply _Russandol_) just stood there, watching the flames, thinking about his cousin Findekáno at the other side of the water.

"What am I thinking?" he repeated hysterically as repressed sobs mingled with the tireless stream of his tears. Thinking of Findekáno did no good; it just reminded him of the last time he ever saw him.

Everyone remembered Findekáno as a proud and reckless warrior, tall, strong and graceful in his shining helm; and the soldiers boomed in soul-stirring ovation whenever they caught a glimpse of him. Everyone loved Findekáno - but just the chosen, lucky ones could fully understand his speech, Russandol recalled, for he spoke as swiftly, as passionately as he lived. It was hard for him to restrain himself while speaking in front of people (though once he did, he succeeded splendidly), since words seemed to sprang to his lips from nowhere – thoughts of perfect shape and magnificent, fascinating ardour. Findekáno was the hero of his people, the hero they loved, the hero they could follow. Findekáno was a hero even to Russandol, though he'd never told him this.

Some soldiers must have caught a last flawless glimpse of Findekáno riding forth to face the Balrog, but no one saw him dead since his guards were massacred, his army destroyed and his allies had fled. No one saw the Hero killed and burned and withered, beaten down to the ground with half his head missing - no one but Russandol.

He had but vague memories of his aimless rush into the wilderness after the Nirnaeth – he rode hard while his horse still drew breath and killed it as soon as it foundered, exhausted. He'd been so hungry he ate his faithful white stallion (he thought, even in desperate need of food, that it was murder. The horse never even dreamt that his master would hurt him, it was much too easy to dirk the poor beast).

_I killed an animal that trusted me, _this was all that Russandol could remember from his lone wanderings. His brothers had rode with him at the beginning but his horse was the fastest, ever the fastest, it rushed past all of them and got lost in the wilderness. Russandol, Maedhros, Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, the Kinslayer, the Prince of the Noldor, the Warden of the East – all of them were lost.

Later, Russandol returned to the battlefield to search his loved ones. The sight haunted him until the very end of his days.

Utter stillness reigned on that field. The sky was grey, the clouds running in haste as Russandol approached the bald earth, still coated with sodden blood as if the very heart of Arda was bleeding, dying in slow agony from its festered wounds. It was a hideous sight – nearly as hideous as the great dark heap that rose on the horizon. Approaching, Russandol could see that it was raised of dead bodies... the bodies of his friends.

He passed around it, looking for familiar faces, but they all seemed the same. The foul, intent smell of decay made his head pound. He even considered laying down beside them and staying there until death but suddenly, he glimpsed the blades of grass. They grew here and there, rising vividly in front of the gray horizon, peeping out from the orbits of a broken skull, the remnants of a withered arm or even a mouth gaping in an eternal yawn.

_Life within death, _Russandol thought as he finally saw his cousin's shattered body through his tears. He would have walked past him if not for his shining armour. The corpse was unrecognizable, even though the crows did not have the courage to tear its flesh any further. Russandol searched for his cousin's hand – two fingers were missing, another one gave way to his touch -, he gave it a clumsy squeeze, lowered his head and sank into deep mourning.

.x.

.x.

"Findekáno," Russandol whispered when dawn broke again (for the second time or the third?), but he never answered.

It has all been a dream, a bad-bad dream. Losgar was over, Nirnaeth was over. Father was dead, his cousin was dead, his brothers were dead, save gentle Makalaurë. Antalossë was rotting in the earth now, but the memory of his scent still made his head pound.

_And I was complaining of Orcs under beds! How about the Orcs in my head...?_

_How about the Orc you are, foully-shaped one?,_ his mocking side added.

Russandol gave a start. He rose from the chair he slept in and raced along his castle, rushed into his (nearly unused) bedroom, then shut the door and sank onto his bed.

_Was he an Orc, after all?_

All decisions he'd made so far have proved fatal, and they mostly ended with a tragedy. He chased his people to death, to captivity, to torment, to danger, to obscurity. He couldn't guard them, he couldn't save them, no matter how hard he tried. And he could never surprise the Enemy... somehow, Morgoth always learned his plans and balked them...

"He has eyes and ears everywhere, Maitimo," he remembered Findekáno saying. "He's worse than all the talemonger ladies I've ever met! Small wonder he finds out everything - maybe we could get our women into service."

But Findekáno could not content himself with joking; he'd sent his spies out in every possible direction but found no informer of Angband between their lines. And yet, the Enemy still knew where Russandol's strength was gathered.

This happened long before the Nirnaeth; and no one had found the answer ever since. But Russandol felt that he was drawing near to the solution.

_The Enemy is within me._

His fingers slid to the neck-line of his tunic and touched his pale skin. He felt his own heart beating under the cloth.

_He is inside! He reads my thoughts and he rules them! He's driving me into my own doom! I am an Orc – no, worse, an Elf-like thrall of the Enemy! I am a weapon, a tool, a wretched... something!_

He fought for air.

_I have to die. I must die. I am wrong. I am soiled. I am dangerous_...

The world reeled wildly around him. He reached for his dagger -

"Maitimo!"

The door sprang open and his brother slid in, swift as a shadow.

_"No!" _Russandol hissed. He wanted to scream, but walls had ears in the Himring... "Go away, leave me, leave me, you mustn't..."

_I am dangerous,_ he wanted to tell him but Makalaurë kept approaching him stubbornly and sat on his bedside.

"You've been missing meals for three days now – don't think I haven't noticed!"

Russandol glimpsed that his brother was carrying a tray fraught with breakfast.

"You must keep your strength, Maitimo. Also, you must have a wash from time to time. You smell like..."

"...a corpse" Russandol muttered.

"That's not what I meant..."

Russandol ignored his protestation. "Makalaurë, I think..."

His brother reached for his hand.

"You think too much. You're terrified and unsettled, as you have every right to be. It is horrible to be forced to kill a friend... but you did the right thing. You saved the children – again."

"I plucked them out from the trouble I've put them in, more like," Russandol groaned but he felt strangely relieved for a moment.

"The result is the same this time," Makalaurë managed a thin smile, and as he caught his brother's glance, said smile grew wider. It was gentle and reassuring, and faint warmth started to creep up to Russandol's heart.

"Be strong!" Makalaurë said suddenly and his grip tightened around Russandol's wrist. "You can't give up now, not after all these years! We still have an Enemy to fight."

"Do you think he could be fought?"

"Think?! Maitimo, you've been fighting him all your life! You've defeated him together with Findekáno, and again with our allies! You've gained us lands, you gave us a new life here! You kept our people safe as you ever watched the borders of the Enemy! You were restless and unbreakable."

"Unbreakable?" Russandol wished he could laugh at that.

"Yes, Brother. And you still are. No matter what Morgoth does, he can't cow you. He can't bend your will. He cannot make you fear him. He cannot make an Orc of you. For him, you are the Enemy – and as long as you hold on, we shall stand by your side, our soldiers and I."

"Stop eulogizing me, little brother, or I might even believe you."

"You could listen to me for once," Makalaurë sighed, and after slight hesitation, he said, "A song just came to my mind. Do you want me to sing it?"

Russandol wanted nothing more, but once again, he had to swallow his _personal standpoint_.

"Soon" He stood, his fist clenching. "But first, I have something else to do."

"And what is it?"

Russandol eyed his brother. "Have you heard about Tyelcano and the starving watchmen?"

Makalaurë sighed sadly. "I have. Maitimo, I..."

"I will chase the rest of the Orcs and see if I can find any trail," Russandol declared and the next moment, he was on his way to the armory. He looked strong and determined, as if he was following carefully elaborated plans and not some headfirst obsession that just busted out from his head, but Makalaurë knew him well and followed him.

"But...," he objected "it's not the right time... Maitimo, it's almost winter!"

"They are starving NOW, brother. And little Elrond has no further need of my furcloak, I suppose."

That was the first time he said the child's name.

"Snow is coming...," Makalaurë asserted.

"Good. I have always loved snow. It's so clean, you know..."

"-but..."

"Call the captain, Brother! I'll be needing a few scouts. Three or four is best."

"Maitimo, I just wanted to say that I..."

"...you stay here with the children. You open the gates to nobody save me or my soldiers..."

"Maitimo, we're ruling this castle together!"

"...don't worry for me until the turning of the month. Search me after six weeks, or more. I'll be sending messengers."

"Could you just listen to me for a moment so I may say that I..."

"...and I'll hunt down another bear if I can so you may have a furcloak on your own..."

"Maitimo..._Nelyo_, are you listening to me?"

"...look after yourself, brother! And take care of the Orcs under beds. May the stars of Varda guard you while I'm away!"

"What?"

Russandol's heart filled with unexpected mirth as his future companions started to gather around them. He almost felt adventurous...

They were about to depart, when Makalaurë threw an angry glance at his brother.

"But Nelyo! What about my song?"

"Sing it for the children, Brother. I'll hear it another day. See you!"

.x.

Russandol left his castle before noon with four scouts by his side. They carried no flags and hit the road as if they were already pursuing their enemies.

_"I shall hold on, Brother," _he promised, _"I shall find my counsellor and bring him back, no matter what. I won't let him turn into an Orc and my watchers won't starve. I will not yield, you have my word on that! I will fight!"_

* * *

><p><strong>Names:<strong>

Maedhros = Russandol = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë (= Nelyo) (no, I'm not obsessed with his names. Not at the least).

Maglor = Makalaurë

Fingon = Findekáno

Feanor = Fëanáro (surprisingly)

**Phrases and mentioned historical events:**

-The fëa and hröa are the Quenya equivalents of _soul_ and _body_.

-The heap that Maedhros sees is called Haudh-En-Nirnaeth (Hill of Tears) or Haudh-En-Ndengin (Hill of the Slain). It is located in Ard-Galen (north Beleriand, between Angband and Dorthonion). Professor Tolkien mentions it in 'The Children of Húrin' and also in 'The Silmarillion'.

- from this: "Nirnaeth" and the "unnumbered tears" of Maedhros refer to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (The Battle of the Unnumbered Tears) in which Fingon died and the Noldor suffered an utter defeat because of a treachery.

-"well-shaped one" and "foully-shaped one" are referring to the name "Maitimo" – the first one translates it, the second one mocks its meaning.

-the two defeats of Morgoth that Maglor talks about are 1: the escape of Maedhros from Morgoth's captivity and 2: the Dagor Aglareb (the Glorious Battle) after which the allied forces of Maedhros and Fingolfin (and Fingon) circled the walls of Angband. They set a watch there to prevent the Enemy of attacking and held him in check for nearly 400 years.

-The meaning of the name 'Tyelcano' can be determined as "Swift one" or "Agile one" but it may also signify "Swift/agile/competent leader". The translation depends on the placement of syllables with which I don't want to tire my readers.

-Antalossë means 'Snow-face' as I have already mentioned in the previous chapter.


	3. Chapter 3: The Bard

So here is the third one, hope you'll like it.

_Strange and sorrowful._

Quenya and Sindarin names are both used.

* * *

><p><strong>The Bard<strong>

The fifth string was mistuned, Makalaurë could hear it clearly – and still, it was strangely satisfying to abandon himself to imperfection. The string ringed a wee bit lower than usual, as if to mingle his music with the melancholic equanimity that clouded his heart. The soft bittersweet melody echoed on and on, from one rigid stone wall to another as if they were all singing in catch. They were the only choir Makalaurë could hope to have in the Himring.

The stars shone bright outside, draping the ink-black sky into a luminous maze of silver cobwebs. Makalaurë could not remember the last time he had the chance to observe the winter sky this clearly – there were no clouds to be seen and the moon was just a thin crescent. He was sitting on the epaulement of his balcony, legs outstretched, leaning to the wall with his back.

After all these years, Russandol would have still gone mad if he saw him like this, inches away from falling... but Makalaurë would have fancied to scare his brother now. He was so angry with him!

Russandol had promised to send him messengers, and so he did... _once_... with _one_ brief note in which he explained that he'd found an Orc trail and he was following it in secret with his scouts. He failed to mention where it was leading to, but Makalaurë had his suspicions. Since then, six weeks have passed - Russandol was nowhere and Makalaurë was getting anxious.

_He left me behind. I'm a burden to him, just as those two blameless children._

_-or even worse. He did not even bother to hear my song._

_And what are your songs for? You're nothing but a lone wolf howling at the moon; your voice dies away in the dead of night._

The lute quiesced in his hands as he glanced up to the wide skies; and at the same moment he heard a soft hissing gasp. As he turned around, he caught a quick glimpse of a child's face disappearing behind the frame of the door.

"Elrond? Is that you, little one?"

It was so like him to err in the castle in this late hour. His twin was merrier in daylight, Makalaurë had observed, while Elrond seemed occupied with his own thoughts. But as the sun went down and the stars lighted up, Elrond seemed to brisk while Elros was fast asleep.

The child's little figure appeared on the doorstep. "I wasn't doing anything wrong," he asserted. "I just wanted to hear a song."

"You've heard plenty of songs today."

"But just another one! Please!"

Makalaurë smiled. "One last song," he promised. "And then you'll go back to sleep."

The bard left the balcony and sat down next to the hearth, his heart filling with unexpected mirth as little Elrond settled down at his legs and he saw how vividly his eyes glimmered in the candle-light. It comforted Makalaurë to see that he could bring someone joy with his singing. But suddenly, he remembered the mistuned string. He had to repair it so the instrument may sound perfect...

"Makalaurë," little Elrond blurted out suddenly while the singer was pulling the strings tense, "where is Russandol?"

"I've already told you, little one. He went after the Orc horde that menaces our borders."

"And when will he come back?"

"No one can tell. Maybe he won't come back at all."

He never meant to say that. He could not even bring himself to imagine _that..._ but the words just came spilling out.

"He will," little Elrond whispered after a long while, utterly convinced. "I know he will."

Makalaurë looked at the child, wondering. Since his brother was away, he found himself spending more and more time with the twins (especially with Elrond). Slowly, the children learned not to fear him and they both liked listening to his soft sad voice. Soon, they would no longer go to sleep without his songs and tales, and they even seemed interested in learning the Old Tongue (though Makalaurë insisted on teaching them the New as well). Sometimes, Elros still acted wild or moody, but a couple of old maps were enough to fascinate little Elrond, who proved to be the swiftest learner of all time - but much less practical than his brother. Makalaurë had learned to tell them apart by their voice, by their moves, by the blink of their eye.

And, slowly, he started to cling to them, even though he knew he shouldn't.

.x.

.x.

.x.

Little Elrond could not remember falling asleep; the soft, bittersweet voice of Makalaurë was still echoing in his head while someone grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, then robbed him of his blankets. When he stirred he saw his twin towering above him, dressed, with a warm cloak on his shoulders – sleeplessly, for once.

_I could not rest for long,_ Elrond asserted to himself, than it occurred to him that Makalaurë must have carried him back to bed. It almost felt like the old times, when he still had parents.

"Elrond!" Elros hissed angrily, "Hurry! We'll miss the chance!"

"What chance?" he yawned. "I had a beautiful dream. Couldn't we just go back to sleep?"

"Sleep?" his twin eyed him sharply. "Lazy! We can't sleep now – we have to go!"

"Go?" Elrond felt the icy claws of fear digging into his stomach. "Now?"

"Now or never!"

Elrond noticed two fraught bundles waiting for them in the corner. Elros' plans were nothing if not well-founded, but suddenly he lost all his stoutness to leave.

"But we're not ready yet – we'll... even if we could hunt, we'll soon have nothing to drink!"

"Everything is covered in snow, stupid. We'll find nothing but _drink._ Come on before he sees us!"

"But the map -"

"What of the map?"

"It's still in _his _room," Elrond whispered, terrified.

Elros took a deep breath.

"I'll watch him," he declared. "Go and get the map, swift as a shadow! I'll meet you at the stables."

"What about the guards?"

"They were summoned into the castle. Something happened... But two of them still keeps circling the walls, I was watching them!"

Elrond blinked. It was fascinating how Elros always had the mind to watch_ everything_.

"But... but they will see us walking past the gate! We can't ride through a closed gate!"

"I said I'll meet you at the stables. I did not say whether we were going ahorse."

"But -"

"No more objections!" his brother commanded. "Get the map!"

And he was gone.

.x.

.x.

The room was dark as always, and the warmth must have oozed by then through the large windows. Only a few embers glew at the bottom of the hearth and no more than a thin band of smoke was puffing up to the walls. Makalaurë was gone but the map still lay on the richly carved desk where they'd studied it together, just a few hours ago.

Elrond had showed deep interest towards the roads that ribboned all through Beleriand and listened with bated breath as Makalaurë told him of the whereabouts of Orc nests, fortresses, caves and the Enemy's strongholds. He could have drawn them by heart now; but still he felt that it was not enough. What if they run into soldiers? Orcs? A pack of wolves? The thralls of the Enemy?

_Another Antalossë?_

Anything could happen and they cannot fight; they could not even wield a sword if they had one. Without horses they could not flee, either. Soon, they would run out of provisions and then they would starve, just as the soldiers of Russandol...

_And what then?_

Elrond's thoughts only reached the terrible Unknown, never reflecting on death, but obscurity proved enough to scare him. Home, yes, he wanted to go home... _but what was home like, and where it was?_ He must have forgotten it somehow, somewhere on the road. Faintly, he remembered living another life but those days were gone and they felt like some colorful, swiftly fading dream.

There were no Orcs in those dreams, no swords, no castles, no soldiers and no darkness - not even the chill of the night or that agonizing hunger he remembered feeling on the road. Soon, he would feel it again; and this time, Russandol won't be there to hunt for them. Neither will Makalaurë, singing him songs and telling him tales, chasing the monsters of the night away...

Now that he and his brother arrived at the very point of acting, all their carefully elaborated escape-plans seemed no more consistent than a house of cards.

_(Little Elrond could never build one, Elros even less)._

Was it a losing game from the beginning? Was it all in vain?

_Was it?_

With Russandol gone, the children's courage stirred and they were working on their escape since the very hour they saw him depart. It was difficult at the start, and as the weeks passed it just got more and more complicated. Night and day, the fortress was guarded by watchful eyes and sharp ears and they could not hope to flee, not with Makalaurë tending them so carefully. But slowly and attendingly, the plan was elaborated and finished. Elros and Elrond were waiting for the opportunity ever since...

...and now that it has come, Elrond found himself unwilling.

Apart from Elros, Makalaurë was the only one to care for him; and unlike his twin, he was able to comfort him. Elrond could hide behind his cloak when he was afraid, he could listen to his songs when he could not sleep, he could hear his tales when he was bored. And Makalaurë could teach him strange things, interesting things like letters, numbers, arts or the lore of forgotten days. And sometimes - when he was in an exceptionally good mood -, he let little Elrond play with the strings of his harp.

Little Elrond was utterly convinced that no one else had a harp in this wide world.

.x.

.x.

Somehow, he got the map.

_Go and get it, swift as a shadow!_

Elros was waiting for him at the stables - and Elros was not particularly renowned of his forbearance. If he would not arrive in time, maybe he'd leave him and go alone; and if Elros left him, that would mean the end of the world.

The map was crumpling slowly in his hands as his frozen little fingers kept squeezing it. He was so afraid he wanted to cry. He saw the guards here, there, everywhere – but no one caught his eye, no one called after him, no one noticed him. No one cared. _No one believed he could climb those walls._ There was something far more important happening in the castle.

Elrond's tears washed down the thin scroll of parchment and the ink began to blur.

_No! No. We won't find our way home!_

_No, we won't. We have no home._

He hid his hand behind his back all the same and wiped away his tears. Elros was waiting at the stables, and he was getting late.

.x.

.x.

.x.

"A letter from your brother, my lord" the scout announced and he bowed. "Good news it brings to you, I must say. All Orcs were chased from our lands, the borders are being fortified. Our soldiers have enough food, drink and blanketing for the winter. The Lord Maedhros succeeded splendidly if I may mention – the Orcs fled in horror as they caught the first glimpse of him."

"My brother is the Enemy of the Enemy", Makalaurë smiled pridefully. "Of course they did."

Gentle waves of relief flooded through his heart, knowing that his brother survived.

_Little Elrond was right – he is coming back._

He broke the seal and read the letter, savouring every word of it, for they were words of victory; in spite of being written in the rather fact-finder style of Maedhros.

_Orcs beaten down to the ground, borders fortified, the watch replaced. More snow is coming, or so some claim. HEAT THE CASTLE. Nelyo._

The bottom of the parchment was folded back and when Makalaurë smoothed it out he noticed one last sentence, written down quickly, almost negligently, as if in secret:

_I can't wait to hear your song._

The singer's smile was faint but it came from the depths of his heart.

_You may hear it, Brother, you may hear it soon._

.x.

.x.

It was dark behind the stables and everything seemed meancingly silent. A thick white blanket covered the whole world and Elrond's footsteps craunched stridently in the snow, or so he thought. Every now and then the horses snorted, they whinnied or they began to paw the ground, but apart from them, nothing moved and no sound was to be heard – only the wind. It howled from the north and Elrond knew it would bring even more ice and snow.

"At last," his twin's voice called after him from the darkness of a warehouse. "I thought you would never come! Do you have the map?"

"I do," Elrond whispered. "But... Elros, are you sure..."

"Shh, silent! Come and look what I have found!"

Elrond caught the wrist of his twin, letting the darkness of the room swallow the pair of them. Elros pulled him into the store – they ran past sacks and boxes and shelves and barrels –, then led him out through the backdoor, where three fully packed carts were waiting with horses hitched in front of them.

"We're not going to freeze of starve!" Elros declared with gleaming eyes. "Here, we'll have more than enough food and drink and we'll stay warm amongst the package. All we have to do is remain silent!"

Elrond studied the carts in distrust.

"But where are they going to?"

"I don't know. Why does it matter? We no longer have a home."

"No, we haven't," Elrond tried to swallow the thought, for he knew his twin would get angry but the words just came spilling out "...but maybe we could have it here!"

"Never," Elros's eyes narrowed. "Never here! Never with _them!_ They burned our home and killed our friends! And Mother! Have you forgotten...?"

Elrond stared at his twin with wide eyes.

"...do you remember?"

"I do!" Elros seemed to be at the edge of tears. "Of course I do! I will always do!"

"Then tell me," Elrond whispered. "Tell me how it happened!"

_Silence._

It hurt him so much.

It would have been better, much better if his twin had screamed the truth right into his face – if he had screamed it all into the night so the whole world could hear it: what happened, when, where and why... but Elrond heard nothing but silence. Absolute, stifling, painful silence.

"We must not forget," Elros whispered. "They did it! They did! Both of them did! Even Makalaurë!"

Yes, it was true. _It had to be true. _Makalaurë was part of it – good, gentle, sweet, sad Makalaurë. It was wrong that he, Elrond was getting close to him. He was just as evil as Russandol – Russandol, who saved him from the Orc, terrible Russandol who left his warm cloak on him to ease the deadly chill of the night -, he was wrong, they both were wrong.

They had to take the chance and leave – to where? It did not matter.

Nothing mattered.

.x.

.x.

.x.

For the first time in weeks, Makalaurë watched as the sun rose to the sky - and disappeared soon enough behind a thick wall of greyish clouds, so the view from his balcony began to remind him of a festering wound. He sighed softly and shook his head, then went on his way to wake the twins.

_Elros will be dressed already, _he supposed, _but it will prove a tale of woes to get Elrond on his feet! He must learn how to rise at the proper time, though – sleeping until noon, or sometimes eve, that is no way to live!_

Forgetting himself, Makalaurë began to hum a sweet melody as he left the doorstep, descended the stairs and walked past the corridor. Softly, he knocked on the door and when no one bothered to answer him, he entered with a sigh.

_"Echuio,_ little ones! The Sun is on its way up to the skies, though you may not see it yet. Come swiftly, I have news to tell! Wake, little children, I..."

The singer's eyes widened.

"Elrond? Elros? Where are you?"

But the room was silent and empty, the windows closed, the table at its place, the chairs in order as they should be. And still - something else was missing, apart from the children.

_The blankets! Yesterday, the bed was still full of blankets. Where could they be?_

_They were both sleepless, maybe, and got tired of it so they woke up? They should have gone to search me, they know I'm always glad to sing them songs...they should have called for me! But where on Arda could they be now?_

There was a wardrobe standing in the corner of the room, its doors half open, and Makalaurë gasped, suddenly filled with a terrible suspicion which grew into certitude, as he saw that the wardrobe was empty.

_They were gone._

.x.

.x.

The guards heard nothing and saw nothing. No horses were missing, no trail was found. Nothing had been stolen from the warehouse, the walls of the castle were thick and high, the snow untouched at all places where a child could have begun to climb. (And even if they began, they could have never reached the top). The whole castle was searched but the guards found no one, nor did Makalaurë himself.

The sun was already going down by the time he noticed that his map was missing; the darkness had already deepened by the time he found out what was the only possible way to escape from the castle. The twins were careful and clever, he had to admit that – far too clever for their age.

_The war did this to them; war and all the dangers of the road._

_And us – Nelyo and I._

_It's a pity that they're heading straight in the arms of my brother, with the last provisions I could send to him. They would learn soon enough that the Himring could not be escaped so easily._

_But if they are so clever, _Makalaurë's thoughts echoed on, _they could have also guessed where the carts were going. What if they leave them on the road? What if they hit the woodlands and they freeze, what if they're waylaid by Orcs, wolves or even worse? What if they die?_

_That won't be your fault, nor that of your brother, _he reminded himself. _You have no reason to hold them captive, they can go on their way if that is their wish. If they wish to die, so be it!_

_I was good to them. I sang them songs and told them tales. I thought they were growing fond of me. I thought little Elrond was interested in my maps and knowledge, I thought he loved learning from me... And they both were only using me up._

_No way! They are just children, small children, they are not yet capable of such. They are just afraid, they cannot trust me after all I have done, they want to go home..._

_But they no longer have a home - why would they search it? Have they forgotten...?_

_No, Makalaurë, they surely have not forgotten you and Nelyo burning their house, chasing their loved ones and their mother to death. Don't expect them to forget THAT._

_But they have nowhere to go! This is insane!_

_Searching for a home that's no longer there – willing to fight with a hand that's no longer there – singing of deeds long gone that no one still remembers; are they not the same?_

And that was when the tears came.

* * *

><p><em>Echuio<em> – Wake up! / Awake! [Sindarin here]


End file.
